The Secret of the Fall
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: When Sherlock starts acting paranoid about something being after him, John calls the Winchester boys to investigate. They find that Sherlock's problem might be out of their league to fix. A follow up to "The Consulting Hunter" and "The Untraceable Enemy", also by me. Note: Takes place long after Reichenbach.
1. The Phone Call

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**For those of you who have read the two stories that proceed this one (The Consulting Hunter and The Untraceable Enemy), or any of my other stories, these chapters will likely come out much slower than I usually get them out because I'm back in classes. I'll try to get one out every other day, which should be easy unless I get a lot of homework very suddenly.**

**Also, if you haven't read the two stories that precede this one, I suggest that you do, or you won't understand some of the references. **

**Also again, this will have more Sherlock spoilers than the other two, up until the end of season 2. You have been warned.**

* * *

John had no idea what to do until he saw the giant bag of salt.

Before that, he'd been lost. Sherlock had been cooped up in the flat for almost a month, doing nothing but sitting on the computer and researching something. This wouldn't have been particularly odd, except for the fact that he didn't even leave the house for cases. Sherlock had put in a lot of effort to get Lestrade's trust back. It had been important to him to get back to his job, to get back to consulting. And Sherlock had done it, and he had been happily—well, happily in the weird, Sherlock sort of way—going about his daily routine… until suddenly, one day, John came home from work and Sherlock had been sitting on the couch, staring at the floor. John ignored it for a long time. After all, Sherlock was like that sometimes. He turned on the telly and tried to ignore him, but it didn't work. Sherlock was even more distracting when he was silent. After a few hours, John was tired of waiting for Sherlock to talk.

"What is it?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up suddenly, as if he hadn't realised anyone was there. His eyes were wide, his breathing was shallow, he was twitching oddly… John had only seen Sherlock that way once, and he hadn't liked it the first time. It was what Sherlock Holmes looked like when he was scared.

"Oh, you're… of course…" Sherlock replied, looking mildly calmer as he met John's gaze.

"I'm what?"

"You're, well, you."

"That wasn't helpful."

"It's not time yet anyway. Of course it's you and not…"

"Not _what_? Sherlock, what's happening? Please tell me. Is it a case?"

"They're going to come. Whether I'm ready or not."

John really hoped that Sherlock wasn't trying to talk to him, because Sherlock was making no sense at all to John. "Sherlock, stop with the riddles."

"I have to be ready," he said as if John had said nothing. And he went to the computer. And that's where he stayed. For an entire month. He didn't sleep or eat or drink—well, John had forced water and food down his throat a few times, just so he didn't fall over dead, but he didn't do anything voluntarily except his damned research. John had considered hitting him over the head in order to force him to sleep, but decided he'd better not try.

Sherlock had never let John see it, so he had no idea what Sherlock was actually doing.

But then, one day, Sherlock got up. And he left the flat, ignoring John's questions about where he might be going. Then, a half hour later, Sherlock came back in, hefting a brown bag in one hand and a rather large sack of rock salt in the other.

John stood up. "It's supernatural!"

Sherlock looked over to John blankly. "Where've you been lately? Haven't seen you in weeks."

John wanted to punch him. Honestly, he hadn't _seen_ him? Hadn't noticed him, not once? John clenched his knuckles to keep from throwing any fists. "Whatever's after you, whatever you're having a bloody fit about, it's supernatural."

Sherlock looked down to the bag of salt, then back to John. "Yes, a bag of salt is rather obvious, isn't it?"

"Yes, a little."

"But it's not anything to worry about. Got it handled, as you can see," Sherlock said with an easy smirk. Too bad John knew Sherlock way better than the genius knew. He could see it in Sherlock's eyes: he was still petrified. It's just that he was a master at hiding compromising emotions such as fear. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't have emotions—though he had less than the average bloke, sure—it was just that he didn't want to _show_ emotions.

John didn't say anything, so Sherlock put the salt down by the door and went back to the computer with his brown paper bag.

So whatever it was, it was supernatural. Something nasty. Something Sherlock didn't think he could handle, or didn't know _how_ to handle in the first place.

So yes, when John saw the salt, he knew exactly what to do. He got out his phone and went through it until he found the number he needed. It only rang once before the person on the other line greeted him.

"Yes, hello, it's John."

_"John... John Watson?_"

"Yes, I know, it's been a while," John said. Sherlock turned, looking mildly curious. John casually started walking farther back into the flat.

"_Is something wrong?_"

"Yeah, looks like it."

"Who is that?" Sherlock hissed. John turned.

"None of your business," he replied, then put his mouth back to the phone.

"_Can you give us any details?_"

"It's Sherlock. He's worried about something."

"John, who is that?" Sherlock demanded more loudly. John heard Sherlock's chair scrape against the floor as he got out of his chair to follow John.

"_You don't know what?_"

"No, but it's your type of thing."

"John!" Sherlock bellowed. "You called _them_? Why on earth would you call _them_?!"

The man on the phone asked something else, but John couldn't hear over Sherlock yelling.

"Get off the phone, John," Sherlock growled.

"Sam, wait a second, I need to get somewhere where I can hear you."

"JOHN!"

And at that John ran. Sherlock was between him and the door, so he could only go deeper into the flat. He went for the john and shut and locked the door. There was furious knocking outside a few moments later.

"John, put that phone down _right_ _now_."

"Sherlock, you need help. They can help you."

"I don't need any help! I've never needed help a day in my life, John. Hang up on him!"

"_Is he trying to kill you?_" Sam asked.

"_Wait, who's getting killed? Sherlock? I'd pay to see that_," Dean could be heard saying in the background.

"Yes, a little, but it's fine, I'm locked in the toilet," John replied.

"_You have a weirder life than I do_," Sam said, "_and that's sayin' something._"

"Yes, yes, I know. The point is—"

John was interrupted by an extremely loud _slam_ against the door. John looked over to it in alarm.

"_What the hell was that_?" Sam asked.

"Sherlock, honestly, don't break the door," John said. "I'm going to call whether you want me to or not. I'll just do it next time I leave the house."

"And I'll turn off your account."

"You need my account information to do that."

"Yes. Your point?"

Right, of course Sherlock knew his account information. "Could you please just come as soon as you can? It's kind of urgent."

"_Dean, want to go to England_?" Sam asked.

An audible sigh. "_Sure, whatever_."

"_We'll be there within the hour_," Sam said to John.

"Thank you so much. Come in with weapons in case Sherlock attacks you," John added nonchalantly.

"_Hey, we kill monsters for a living. I think we can take Sherlock Holmes_."

"Don't be so sure."

* * *

Sherlock stopped banging on the door when he heard John hang up.

"Are you going to hit me?"

"No, I'm leaving," Sherlock said. He sounded like he was going back down the stairs. John opened the door and sure enough, Sherlock was gone. He raced down the stairs and saw Sherlock putting the lamp back by the bookcase.

"You bludgeoned the loo door with our lamp?"

Sherlock turned. "You shouldn't have called them. I don't need them."

"Sherlock, you do."

"I don't. I'm locking the door."

"And Castiel will get them in."

"I'll angel-proof the flat."

"You don't know how to do that."

"Did you just accuse me of not knowing how to do something?"

"Right, that was stupid. But Sherlock, listen to me, you need help with whatever this is. You _aren't_ okay, even though you keep talking as if you are. You've been completely frantic, which isn't like you. You just damaged our lavatory with the furniture."

"I always damage things. That's not different."

"You don't do it in desperation. Well, other than desperate boredom."

Sherlock actually smirked, then sighed and sat down, looking less angry now. Well, now he looked anxious like before—though he tried to hide it. "I wish you hadn't called them, John."

"You need help. You aren't comfortable talking to me about it—"

"So that makes you think I would be comfortable talking to _them_ about it?"

"No. They'll force it out of you. And once they do, they'll help you. That's what matters to me. So they're coming and I won't let them leave until you talk to them. Maybe I'll have Dean take your bed…"

"Shut up."

"So will you talk to them?"

"No." He crossed his arms petulantly. "But I won't try to kill them when they arrive," he added.

"That's all I ask."


	2. Sherlock's Conscience is Showing

Sam and Dean called Castiel and he arrived immediately.

"You need to go to London," he said.

"You knew?" Dean asked. "Were you listening?"

"No. You never call me unless you're going to see them anymore."

"We've only met them twice."

"You haven't called often lately."

"I'm sorry, are you feeling neglected?" Dean asked.

Castiel looked at him blankly, not catching the sarcasm. "No, not really. We do see each other pretty often, but I usually just show up, you don't have to call me."

Dean considered explaining that he was kidding, but then figured he shouldn't even bother.

"So to 221B Baker Street," Sam said.

"God, you've memorized it?" Dean muttered. "That means we're seeing them way too much…"

* * *

They appeared inside the building at the bottom of the stairs. They walked up and Sam knocked on the door. A moment later it was opened by John, who looked extremely tired.

"Hello. Come on in," he said. Sam, Dean, and Castiel walked in past him and Sam and Dean went to sit down, but then Castiel grabbed Dean's arm. He actually winced at the grip, which was tighter than it even seemed Castiel was capable of squeezing.

"What is it?" Dean asked.

Castiel didn't respond, but he was staring at the couch, where sat Sherlock. Sherlock met Castiel's gaze in a defiant sort of way, as if saying, 'yes, I know you see something bad about me and I don't even care.'

Castiel let go, and Dean was trying to see what about Sherlock was bothering him.

"Cas, is it—" And that was when Dean realized that Castiel had vanished. "Yeah, goodbye to you too!"

"So what's going on?" Sam asked Sherlock. Sherlock sat there on the couch, looking at the ground. Actually, Dean had never seen Sherlock so inactive. That in itself was a little odd.

"He won't tell you," John said. "He won't even tell me."

"Then why are we here?" Dean asked exasperatedly.

"To figure it out," John said. Then he approached Sam, who was closer, and hissed something in his ear. Sam nodded and went over to the desk by the window. At this point Sherlock's eyes widened.

"Don't look in there," Sherlock said, getting up. Sam was quick, though, and he was able to dump the contents out onto the ground before Sherlock could reach him.

"No way," Dean muttered, looking at what was on the ground. He knew exactly what the problem was now. How the hell had Sherlock gotten himself into that kind of mess?

"John, I want you to leave," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"I won't talk to them unless you leave."

Even Dean could see that John was a little hurt by this, but he just rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Fine. I'll go meet Sarah."

"She still talks to you?" Sherlock asked.

"Shut up," John muttered as he went down the stairs and shut the door. Sherlock stared at that door until they all heard the exterior door downstairs shut. Then he looked at the boys.

"So you know now."

Dean certainly did know, looking at the Devil's Shoestring sitting on the ground. It went above your door to keep hell hounds at bay.

"What did you get out of the deal?" Dean growled. "Money? Fame? A friend like John? Does it seem worth it _now_?" Dean wasn't sure why he was so angry, but he looked over at Sam and he looked a little furious too. Maybe because they knew what hell was like and they couldn't believe people would subject themselves to that.

"Life," Sherlock replied.

That stopped Dean. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock looked irritated. "I had to jump off a building and live. So I made a deal with a crossroads demon to make that happen."

"Jump off a building?" Sam inquired incredulously.

"Yes. I was being made to do it, and if I didn't… people I cared about were going to die. You see, long story short, a man was trying to discredit me, trying to make the world think I was a fraud, that I committed all of the crimes that I ever solved. This _man_," Dean definitely noticed that Sherlock didn't want to say the name of the man, "thought that the best way to completely prove I was a fraud was by me committing suicide. He had snipers ready to kill three people if I didn't. So I knew I had to make the jump, but I didn't want to die."

"Because nobody could solve a problem without you around?" Dean asked dryly.

"Because of John," Sherlock snapped. The boys looked confused. "John's important to me. I didn't want to leave him here, alone, thinking I had committed suicide when I hadn't. Just seeing what he was like before I came back… I'll never forgive myself for what I put him through." Dean was shocked at the amount of humanity that Sherlock was displaying. He knew Sherlock cared about John, but not to the extent that he could show human emotions like sympathy and self-sacrifice.

"It took years before I could reveal myself again, before I could get rid of the sniper that was ready to kill my friends," Sherlock continued. "When I came back, John was furious I'd been gone so long. Punched me halfway down the stairs, actually. And it took another few years for people to believe I wasn't a fraud. And now it's been nine years and ten months."

"And you're running out of time," Sam sighed.

Sherlock nodded. Dean realized that Sherlock was legitimately frightened. He looked pale and slightly sick. "I told John I didn't need any help because I don't think I'll be able to get out of it this time. I just… I don't think John can go through that again. People's emotions are so weak, easy to shatter. That's why I refrain from feeling them."

"I didn't think you could be so selfless," Sam said.

"Well someone's got to look after the man. He's a moron."

"Right, and now we're back to the dick part of your personality," Dean muttered.

"No more of a moron than everyone else on the planet," Sherlock added, as if that made his comment better. Sam and Dean didn't see a point in even commenting on that one.

"So you need to somehow get out of going to hell," Dean summarized.

"Without John knowing what's happening."

"What?"

"You can't tell John about this."

"Why not?"

"If I die, I don't want him to know why."

"You think he would feel better if you just disappeared with no explanation?" Sam asked. "Because I think that would make it worse."

"He doesn't need to know," Sherlock insisted.

"I think he would want to know—"

"Don't tell him!" Sherlock bellowed. "I'll make you leave right now."

"I'm fine with that," Dean muttered.

"Dean," Sam warned.

"What?"

"Sherlock may be really annoying, but he doesn't deserve to go to hell."

Dean sighed. "Nobody deserves to go to hell," Dean said. "Not even you."

"Then let's figure this out," Sam replied.


	3. Two Parts of the Same Whole

Sam and Dean got comfortable, but took nothing out. Sherlock looked at them in confusion—Sherlock had a feeling that Dean was quite happy to see Sherlock look confused.

"I thought we were 'figuring this out'," Sherlock inquired.

"We are," Sam said. "I'm thinking."

"Thinking?" Sherlock scoffed.

"What did you expect?"

"Computers. Journals. Something along the lines of research."

"That's when you saw us hunting for monsters," Dean said. "All monsters are different. But now you're calling us for a demon."

"We are kind of demon experts," Sam said. "There isn't much else to research."

Sherlock had to try not to laugh out loud. These men were good at what they did, and Sam wasn't completely brain-dead, Sherlock admitted both those things. But experts? On anything? It seemed unlikely. "I seriously doubt you are—" Sherlock began.

"The way a demon deal works is that you go to a crossroad," Dean said, "and bring a package of black cat bone, graveyard dirt, and a picture of yourself. Then you bury it and some demon shows up, makes a deal with you, probably makes it sounds better than it is. You usually get ten years, unless you're really valuable or they really don't like you. Then, if all goes according to their plan, you go to hell and get tortured. Well, until you become the torturer."

Dean became silent and Sherlock watched him. Sherlock had never seen Dean look so… vulnerable. Like he was remembering something he desperately wanted to forget.

"Why'd you make the deal?" Sherlock asked.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Do you have to be a know-it-all all the time?"

"You made it rather obvious."

Dean crossed his arms and looked at the ceiling—just so he didn't have to look at Sherlock, probably. "Sam died. I wanted to bring him back, so I sold my soul. I only got a year."

"How did you get out of it?" Sherlock asked, but he had a bad feeling that he knew the answer.

"I didn't," Dean replied. "I was in hell for four months. Except there, a month is ten years." He had a feeling Dean hadn't gotten out of it. There was always something about him, something dark, hidden just beneath the exterior. This explained what that was. A trip to hell was enough to make a man apathetic, hardened to life. And he was there for almost half a century.

Sherlock considered being at a place like that for forty years. Being tortured, constantly. He had been trying hard not to think on it too much, what it might be like when he was taken to hell, because he knew it made him nervous, but he was having trouble not thinking about it now. It made his palms start to sweat.

"You've been to hell? And you're here now?" They were mostly questions out of courtesy. Sherlock didn't care in the slightest that Dean thought he was a know-it-all—because it was true, of course—but he hadn't actually intended to open up a difficult past and almost felt a tiny bit guilty about it.

"That's why I don't like when you pretend that you know shit about me. Because you don't," Dean growled, looking suddenly far off and solemn as he remembered his experiences in hell.

Sam came over and put his hand on Dean's shoulder. It seemed like a casual action, but it made Dean shake his head and look at Sam. Sherlock looked at the boys for a moment. It was interesting, because they were so much more than brothers. It was closer to them being two parts of the same whole. They were just one person and they couldn't function without the other because they weren't complete when they were apart. Brain and brawn, emotion and apathy. But both very, very damaged. That they had in common. Sherlock used to have difficulty understanding bonds like that. Honestly, people worked better apart than together. People were distractions from what was really important… but since he met John, he understood it. He and John met for a reason. They were better together than apart. Brain and brawn, apathy and emotion. And both very, very damaged. He and John had that in common too.

"How did you get out of hell?" Sherlock asked, but he thought he knew this one too. How else did they meet an angel?

"Castiel. He's the one who, what did he call it, 'raised me from perdition'," Dean said with a fond smile.

"And you," Sherlock said to Sam. "How did you get out of hell?"

Sam blinked. "I don't think I ever said anything about going to hell."

Sherlock didn't feel like explaining how obvious it had been by Sam's body language that the thought of hell made him uncomfortable. He started stabbing his thumb into his hand in a subconscious sort of way, then looked down and realised he was doing it and stopped. Actually, Sam looked both furious and petrified at the mention of hell, in a way that Dean hadn't, which made Sherlock assume he was either more emotionally fragile—which might have been true, but Sherlock doubted that because Dean wasn't nearly as tough as he pretended—or, more likely, he was in hell for much longer and had a much more traumatizing experience.

"Are you still questioning how I know things?" Sherlock asked.

Sam was always more understanding about Sherlock's deductive skills than his brother, but now even he looked a little peeved.

"Anyway," Sherlock said, not wanting to start some pointless argument that would just get the Winchester boys emotional, "so basically you have no idea how me out of this."

"We didn't say that," Sam said.

"See, we know the demon who holds your contract. He holds all the contracts now," Dean continued.

"You know him personally?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh yeah, we go way back," Dean said with a smirk. "His name's Crowley, The King of Hell."

"The King of Hell? Wouldn't that be Satan?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, you'd think, but Lucifer is stuck in a cage in hell with Michael."

"Michael? The arch-angel?"

"I know, it's crazy," Dean said. "I don't know why people bother with day-time TV when real life is this insane all the time."

"So what do we do?" Sherlock finally asked, irritated that he didn't already know.

"Once we threatened to burn Crowley's bones," Sam said, "It got our friend Bobby out of a deal."

"That probably won't work again," Dean continued, "but either way, we're going to have to call him."

"_Call_ him? Call the King of Hell and invite him into the flat?"

Dean smiled. "You scared, Holmes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not in the slightest. Call him."


	4. Crowley

Surprisingly enough, Sherlock had all the things they needed to summon a demon sitting in his house. He certainly had some weird things sitting around his house. They were able to get it done quickly enough.

Crowley appeared quickly and looked up at the ceiling in a bored sort of way at the devil's trap painted there.

"Are you guys ever going to do something new? Honestly, being captured by you two is so _boring_. You're not very creative."

"That was the demon. At the crossroads," Sherlock said.

Out of all the things Dean could have said, he chuckled a little. "You kissed Crowley?" Dean asked.

Sherlock looked only slightly embarrassed. "You didn't mention that part when going over how deals work."

"No, I didn't," Dean said, still smiling. "I figured you got a girl. My demon was a girl. But you kissed _Crowley_?"

Sherlock was about to say something when Crowley spoke. "Sherlock Holmes," Crowley said, breaking up their banter. "I thought I'd see you again."

"Did you?"

"Oh yes. Hunters always think they can take back their deals, so I knew a _Consulting_ Hunter was even more likely to try."

"Do you make all deals now?" Dean asked, still managing to sound disdainful even in his honest curiosity.

"No," Crowley said. "I've got people to do that for me. I only get down and dirty for the deals I'm particularly interested in."

"You were interested in my deal?" Sherlock asked.

Crowley grinned in a way that was somehow menacing. "Of course, darling. It's painfully artistic, the whole deal. There's a man who's a complete genius. He gets his reputation ruined and everyone thinks he's a fraud, then jumps off a building and lives, proving the only fraudulent thing he ever did was convince everyone he's a fraud. Then, he spends so much time getting everyone to trust him and as soon as everything looks like it's going well..." He snapped and looked Sherlock in the eye. "Your time's up." He smiled again, this time in a definitely malicious way. "Honestly, even Lucifer himself could see the beauty in it, and he's the least cultured person I ever knew. He spends all his time complaining, 'Ooh, daddy doesn't love me!' Blah blah blahhh. Honestly, I could see why God likes you lot better than all the angels. They're boring. Well, other than your mate Castiel. He's a liar. I can respect that."

"Okay, we're done with story time," Dean snapped. "You know the drill. We want his contract rescinded."

"Wow, big word, Dean," Crowley said. "Good job."

Dean rolled his eyes and clenched his fists.

"I so don't want to deal with your crap right now."

"You called me, if you recall. I didn't just show up to see my beloved Moose over here." Sam rolled his eyes and Dean just glared. "Alright, alright, you're grumpy. And I want to go back to what I was doing, personally, so I'll get right down to the point. No, I won't rescind the contract. I don't want to. And you can't make any threats about burning bones because I moved them. So I'll just be going now, if you'll erase this demon trap."

"Not happening," Dean barked.

"Oh, now are you going to torture me? You're quite good at that, I hear," Crowley jeered.

"I'm considering it," Dean said.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "If you don't let me go, I'll be forced to get myself out, and I don't think Sherlock wants his pretty little flat destroyed. Do you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't respond, just looked at Crowley with a blank stare. If Dean didn't know any better, he'd think there were never any emotions going through the guy's head. He'd probably be great at poker.

A moment later, Sherlock turned and he went to the kitchen, then came out a few seconds later with a broom in his hand. Dean was about to ask what Sherlock had it for when Sherlock reached up with the bristled end and swiped the ceiling. It was enough to break the line.

"No!" Dean huffed.

"Thanks, mate. See you in hell."

And Crowley vanished.

Dean turned on Sherlock in anger. "What the hell is your problem?"

"I—"

"Honestly, what smart-ass reason could you have for doing _that?"_

"Actually—"

"Don't you want to live?"

"Yes!" Sherlock snapped. Dean shut up. "That's why I let him leave, you imbecile!"

"What?"

"We need to find his bones," Sherlock said, as if this were obvious.

"We don't know where to start," Sam said in exasperation. "If you didn't let Crowley leave, then we might have figured it out."

"You already know where they are," Sherlock replied. Before Sam or Dean could get out their arguments, Sherlock said, "He was lying."

"What?" they asked in unison.

"When he said he moved his bones, he was bluffing. They're still there, wherever you saw them last."

Sam and Dean looked at each other and they knew the other was thinking the same thing: _Should we trust Sherlock's instincts_?

It barely took a few seconds to know the answer because the answer was, in Sherlock's own words, obvious.

"Then we're going to Scotland," Sam said.

"Scotland?"

They all turned to see John in the doorway with bags in his hands. "John, I told you to leave," Sherlock said, quite rudely.

John stared down Sherlock with his meanest glare. Dean thought it was fairly impressive.

"Tell me what's going on."

"No."

"Sherlock—what, do you think I can't handle it? I'm not a helpless little boy. I don't need your protection and I'm tired of you acting like I do. I've been worried sick about you for weeks, so at least give me the courtesy of telling me what I'm worrying over, you arse!"

Dean actually felt a little bad for Sherlock. He was only going to all of this trouble in the first place for John, but now John thought that Sherlock thought he couldn't handle the danger, and that certainly wasn't the case.

"John…" Sherlock muttered.

"I don't want to hear any bloody excuses, Sherlock."

Sherlock sat down and stared at his hands in his lap. Then he put his face in them, in anguish or something else very un-Sherlock-like. This made John fall silent, looking at him questioningly. He glanced over at Dean, who found himself looking at John sympathetically.

Dean kind of understood where Sherlock was coming from—which was weird, because usually Sherlock's actions weren't human enough to be understood by other people. This, however, was extremely… well, normal. He knew John would be furious that Sherlock was going to get himself killed. John had already been through losing Sherlock and, from what Dean could tell, it hadn't been good. Sherlock wanted to fix it before John even knew so that he didn't have to go through the pain.

"Hey, Sammy, maybe we should go outside," Dean said. Sam nodded and they both walked out, leaving John and Sherlock alone.

* * *

**Hello all! Just wanted to remind you all that I really like reviews.**

**Like really. A LOT. Even if it's just a word. A nonsense word would do. "Marshmellow". "Lilypad". Anything. But, preferably, something constructive so I can know what people are liking so I can do more of it in later chapters. Thanks for reading so far!**


	5. 22 Northumberland Street

John sat on the settee that Sherlock was on. Sherlock still wouldn't look up. John had been angry at first, but now he was just worried about Sherlock all over again. What could be happening that had him this worked up? John didn't think he was crying—he couldn't hear anything, at least—but the only time he'd seen the man tear up… well, he hadn't been able to see very clearly… Sherlock had been very high up at the time…

The thought made his chest hurt, so he tried not to think about it.

"Sherlock, will you please tell me what's happening? It can't be that bad."

Sherlock looked up and John was surprised to see his face was completely composed. He stood up. "You see, John, what happened was, I knew I was going to die if I jumped off that building, but I knew I had to do it—to save people, as you know. So the only solution was to find a way not to die. So I made a deal with a demon and got ten years to live and now hounds are going to come and take me to hell in a little more than a month." He looked at John, the look on his face like he had just told John he wanted to go out to lunch and was curious what kind of food he fancied. "So?"

John gaped up at Sherlock. "So… long story short… you are literally _dying_ and your plan was to keep it from me until you just vanished without a trace and you thought I would just _figure it out_?"

"Well, I wouldn't really say 'without a trace'. More than likely, the hounds are going to leave a gory mess for you to clean up."

John started gnawing on his tongue in order to keep from screaming. "Sherlock. I am going to hit you so hard you'll still have a bruise when you're dragged off to _hell_!"

"I doubt I'll have a bruise that long."

John stood up and grabbed the collar of Sherlock shirt, glaring at him murderously. His best friend. Who was going to die.

John found himself trying to swallow down a massive lump in his throat.

"I thought you were going to hit me," Sherlock said. "I'd like that better than if you had an emotional explosion."

John nodded. The fury was coming back, this time much more severe than before. "Emotional explosion. So basically, you told yourself that the reason you weren't going to tell me was because you didn't want me to go through the _heartache_, but the real reason was that you didn't want to have to tell me and see me get _emotional_. You make me sick, honestly you do. So I'll just go, just so I don't have to make you deal with my extremely annoying feelings." John stalked past Sherlock and pounded down the steps, going outside. Dean and Sam were standing outside, talking, and turned when he came out the door with furrowed brows.

"Hey, you okay?" Sam tried to ask.

"Sherlock's a prat," John snapped. "Don't bother saving him, he isn't worth the trouble."

John only saw them look at each other in surprise before he had walked past him and was gone.

* * *

John knew, deep inside, that the only reason he came to this restaurant was because Sherlock would be able to guess where it was. He didn't want to admit it, but he knew that. Because he went to this little Italian place that overlooked the address 22 Northumberland, a place he and Sherlock went when they first met so many years ago. They hadn't been there since, but John knew that if Sherlock wanted to find him, he'd be able to.

John's deduction skills had to have been improving, because Sherlock Holmes walked through the door barely ten minutes later. John considered leaving at first, because he thought it would take a bit longer to be found, but just sat at that same table staring at that same address. He got a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach when he saw a cab pass by the place.

That day they went here, John stopped using a cane for what Sherlock had claimed—quite correctly, of course—was a psychosomatic limp. Sherlock had shown him that what John was really missing in his life was not peace, but adventure. He hadn't used a cane since. And how many other things could Sherlock teach him about life for the rest of their lives?

How much of those things would he miss if Sherlock got dragged off to hell?

"John, you're right," Sherlock said as he sat down. Angelo had the sense not to come over and ask what they wanted so Sherlock could keep talking. "I was hiding from your feelings, but not because they annoy me." Sherlock paused, as if John might say something, but then sighed when John had nothing to say to that. "I saw what you were like when I was gone the first time. You were a wreck. I didn't like seeing you that way at all, but it made it so much worse to know it was my fault. So yes, I was being a coward. I don't want to make you feel that way, and I'd honestly rather die today than have to see you that way again."

John wanted desperately to stay angry at him, but he couldn't after that.

"Please tell me there's some obscure way to fix this."

"There might be. Sam and Dean know how to blackmail the demon who has my contract. I just wanted to try and fix it without telling you about it at all."

"Or have died without any explanation at all."

Sherlock shrugged. "That was the other option. But obviously, I didn't take that route."

"You would have, had I not forced you to tell me the truth."

"Technicalities," Sherlock said with a little smile.

John rolled his eyes. "If you die, I'll kill you."

"I'll keep that in mind."


	6. An Unfortunate Alliance

Sherlock and John got back to their place barely twenty minutes after they disappeared. Sam and Dean were still standing outside. All they knew was that John stormed out, angry at John, and Sherlock followed five minutes later, also refusing to say what had happened. When they came back, however, they seemed about the same as they normally would.

Sam figured there wasn't much point in asking them to explain, so he just said, "If we want to get to Crowley's bones, we should go now."

"Then shouldn't we call Castiel?" John asked.

"I'm already here."

Everyone jumped and turned. Castiel was standing directly behind Dean, as if he'd been there the whole time.

"How many times do I have to tell you that that's creepy?" Dean complained.

"I knew you were going to call, so I came."

"But you could at least warn us that you're here. How long have you been here?"

"About a half hour."

"Damn it, Cas," Dean muttered. "Well, we're going to Scotland."

"I know." He stayed motionless, looking at them.

"So… that meant now."

"I just thought I should warn you that there are demons guarding Crowley's grave."

Dean took his demon-killing knife out of his belt. "You think I don't know that?"

"What are we supposed to fight with then?" John asked.

Sam grabbed out a flask and John sniffed it. "Doesn't smell like anything."

"It's holy water," Sherlock said. "And this is all you have?"

"What do you suggest, Holmes?" Dean snapped. "We only have one sacred demon killing knife, sorry to disappoint."

Sherlock took a deep breath, then said through gritted teeth, "I only meant that if you're the only one with a weapon, you'll be protecting three other people. Maybe only two of us should go."

"You want Sam and I to do your dirty work?"

"No. I want Sam and _I_ to do my dirty work."

"Wait," Sam said, "You just want me to come?"

"Yes."

"Not happening," John muttered. "I'm not staying here."

"It makes sense," Sherlock said. "Dean and I can't get along for five minutes and if John were there, I'd be worrying about whether he was alright. Sam and I can work together and won't be too concerned with how the other is doing."

Dean was grinding his teeth and John was looking just as petulant. It was obvious to Sam that neither were planning on listening.

"He's got a point," Sam said. This made Dean turn to him with an eyebrow up, as if agreeing with Sherlock was some sort of betrayal. "Dean, come on, it's not helpful to have three people with no weapon."

"Sherlock can't fight. You'll be babysitting him the whole time."

Sherlock scoffed. "I can take care of myself, actually. Sam, let's go."

Sam nodded. He could hear John muttering angrily to Sherlock, but Sam ignored it and turned to Dean, holding out his hand for the knife. Dean glared. "If we're not back in a half hour, come get us. Trust me."

Dean looked at him for a moment, then sighed and handed the knife off to Sam. "Twenty minutes."

"Fine."

"Castiel," Sherlock said. Sam glanced at John, who looked angry still, but wasn't arguing.

Castiel nodded and put his hand on Sam's and Sherlock's shoulders.

* * *

Castiel made them appear a few feet away, hiding behind tombstones. Sam could see the area where the bones were buried and it was completely surrounded by demons. There were more than a dozen.

A thought came to Sam. Why would Crowley keep his bones here if he thought that they might come after them? With this many demons guarding them, he must have been figuring that his bones weren't safe.

"Sherlock," Sam whispered.

"You think this is a trap too?"

Sam nodded. "Maybe his bones aren't here and he tricked you into thinking he lied."

"Tricked me?" Sherlock inquired, seeming appalled by the statement. "No, they're here. But he was luring us here for a reason. But why? _Why_?"

"I don't know," Sam replied, though he wasn't entirely sure that Sherlock was even speaking to him. "But we can't just leave. Maybe he wanted to test our nerve and he'll move the bones after today or something. This could be our only chance to save you."

Sherlock sighed and nodded. "Yes, you're right. But, even with your skill at fighting, we're rather outnumbered."

"Yeah, I know."

"I don't understand why you would want to risk yourself to save me."

Sam smiled a little in a sad sort of way. Everyone thought Sherlock had no real feelings, but that wasn't true at all. You could tell his adrenaline was really pumping because his eyes were open too wide and he was bouncing a little where he knelt. He was nervous. Sam wouldn't go as far to say afraid, but definitely he was worried about how this fight was going to end. "Because you're a person like anyone else."

He scowled just a little, like he didn't like the comment.

"That's not such a bad thing, you know," Sam said. Sherlock might have even been more ordinary than Sam was. Sam had a demon bleed in his mouth at birth which caused him to have psychic powers for a time. Sam wasn't even full human. Sherlock was human, just with a bigger brain than most—or all—the rest.

"We're wasting time," Sherlock commented.

Sam nodded and ran out from behind the headstone.

He couldn't see Sherlock, but he knew he had come out. Sam had the demon blade and could bring down foes in a second or two, but with this many to fight, they were surrounding him. He wanted to not worry about Sherlock, but he glanced over. Sherlock was splashing holy water on one. Well, that meant he wasn't dead yet.

Sam was getting a very bad feeling about his whole thing, wishing Dean was there fighting with him, when he realized something.

"You aren't even trying," he said aloud.

"Very good!" someone said. The demons backed off, standing around them in a circle. Then Sam could see where the voice came from. He had known who it was by hearing it, but he had not excepted him to have luggage.

"Let them go," Sam growled, looking at Dean and John tied at his feet.

"You Winchesters and your threatening," Crowley said with a smirk. Sam continued to glare, his knife held out menacingly. "My god, Moose, calm down. I'm not even here for you."

Sam was confused enough that he put his blade down by his side. He looked to Dean, who had his mouth gagged, trying to ask him what the hell was going on. Dean shrugged minutely.

"This is about me then?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh yes. You are very interesting to me."

"Yes, because of my artful death, I know."

Crowley sighed dramatically. "Sadly, no. That won't be happening."

"Won't it?"

"No. You see, I've been told a great deal about you, Sherlock Holmes. I was told that you could tell a man was lying just by listening to him, watching his movements. I'm not just a man, of course, but I thought I would test it out. You knew I was lying when I said the bones were moved. You were able to deduce that the King of Hell was lying. I am, to say the least, impressed."

"You are just as much a man as any of us," Sherlock said. "Telling that you're lying is no different than telling if Dean is."

Sam noticed that Sherlock clumped himself into the 'us', which was interesting. He also noticed that Crowley donned almost the exact same scowl that Sherlock had at the mention of being a normal man. It made Sam feel uneasy.

"It isn't, actually. I've been lying since before you were born, mate. I'm rather good at it."

"What does this have to do with anything?" Sam snapped. "Are you getting rid of Sherlock's contract or not?"

Crowley pursed his lips for a moment, then said, "There never was one."

Sam and Sherlock and the tied up Dean and John were all exchanging confused glances.

"When you lived," Crowley said, "I was just pulling in a favor. There was no contract. There was no ten year deadline. I certainly wish there were, since it _would_ be a masterpiece of a contract, but I was told that you needed to live."

Sam looked over at Sherlock and noticed that he was scowling in a way Sam had never seen before. He knew why Crowley saved him and didn't like it.

Crowley smirked. "Recognize the signature?" he asked. Sam was kind of lost, but then he found himself glancing to John and was confused that John seemed to understand as well, and was looking rather furious too.

"Yes," Sherlock barely whispered.

"I met him a long time ago. A genius, really. I was intrigued by his work. He causes almost as much chaos as me, it's brilliant. And so ten years back, he told me he had devised a plan for you. It was perfect and I wanted in."

"So he's alive too?" Sherlock asked, more in a resigned way than as if he were actually asking.

"Who the hell are you talking about?" Sam finally asked.

Crowley snapped his fingers and at the same time, all the other demons vanished and John and Dean were unbound and standing by Sam and Sherlock. John looked about ready to attack Crowley, but Dean put his hand on one shoulder as Sherlock put a hand on the other and he just stood there, fuming.

"Moriarty," Crowley replied. And then he was gone.

* * *

**Sorry this chapter took forever! Been really busy. Please review and let me know what you think! **


	7. Team Impossible

They were alone at the cemetery. John was gnawing on his lip, ready to hit something. He was clenching his fists hard to keep from swinging at anyone there, just as a release.

"We don't know that he's telling the truth," Dean finally said.

"He was," Sherlock said quietly.

"Who's Moriarty?" Sam asked. John could tell by the look on his face that Sam had noticed that John flinched at the name. He hated that snake. There would be nothing more satisfying than to put a bullet into his skull. Or ten.

"A man that I sincerely hope you never meet," Sherlock said.

"A _man_. That term being used loosely, I suppose," John muttered.

"He's the one that told you to jump off the building," Dean said. John was surprised he guessed it. "But why would he want you alive?"

"The game," Sherlock said, nearly smiling.

"This isn't a game with him, Sherlock, he's trying to ruin you."

"It's always a game, John," Sherlock retorted. "He wants to show that he's better, that even when I think I'm in control, like with the contract, he is the true puppet master."

"You can't do this again, Sherlock," John snapped. "He's going to kill you this time, really kill you."

"No, he won't. Because I'm better than him."

"Doesn't seem that way," John said. Sherlock glared a little.

"Everyone makes a mistake," Sherlock said. "I have to wait for him to make his."

"Maybe that's why he doesn't," John said. "He's had the King of Hell on his side for who knows how long. Maybe Crowley is the force that helps him win."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "It's part of it."

"I don't understand," Dean finally said. "I still don't get why he would keep you alive if he made you jump off a damn building."

"Weren't you listening?" Sherlock snapped. "The _game_! The fight between two intellects."

"But why play the game at all?" Sam inquired. "If he wanted to beat you, then… well, he kind of did when you jumped off the building."

"Because," Sherlock said, "He's bored."

"Bored," Dean said. "He'd kill people because he's bored. He sounds like you."

"You shut your mouth!" John hissed. Dean put his hands up, seeming confused.

"It was a joke," Dean said.

"No it wasn't," Sherlock replied. "He _is_ like me. I know that."

"No he isn't," John said. "He's nothing like you. He's a monster and—"

"And I'm not? A few people would disagree with you on that one."

"Sherlock," John said, "I see the similarities. I knew they're there. But what makes you two similar isn't really what matters. Because you _aren't_ him."

"Because of my _heart_?" Sherlock said distastefully. John almost smiled at Sherlock admitting he had one out loud.

"Yes, actually," John said.

Sherlock stood there quietly for a moment, and then said, "Let's get back to the flat, shall we?"

* * *

Once they were back inside and Castiel had vanished again, they all sat down on and just looked at each other.

"These two working together," Sam finally said, "It means that this isn't over, is it?"

Sherlock smiled darkly. "It will never be over, not until he's dead."

"Who, Crowley or Moriarty?" Dean asked.

"Take your pick," Sherlock replied.

"So what do we do?" Sam asked.

"There's nothing for you to do."

"You're still too proud to accept our help?"

"No. There's just nothing to do right now. I, regrettably, have no idea what he's up to. Haven't heard about him in a decade. Until I hear whispers, we're stuck waiting."

John was listening, but was still clenching and unclenching his fists just for something to do. Sherlock's life was only just fixed, and now _he_ was here to ruin it again. Like Crowley had said, it was like evil art.

"And once you hear those whispers…" Sam prompted.

Sherlock sighed. "I'll call if I think I need to."

"This is going to become quite the chore, isn't it?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, probably," Sam said, "but that doesn't matter. If there's supernatural stuff happening, that's harming people, and we can stop it, that's our job."

Dean nodded. "I know. It does make you wonder how many people Crowley has helped Moriarty kill."

"I think that number would make us all nauseous," Sherlock said. Then he looked over to John. "You alright?" he asked quietly, as if maybe the Winchesters wouldn't notice the sentiment if he whispered.

"Course," John muttered. "Why wouldn't I be?" Really, John was being obvious by responding this way, but part of him wanted to be. John felt like his life was crumbling all over again. He couldn't lose everything a second time. He didn't think he could take it. In the end, Sherlock's almost death had ruined John far worse than it had ruined Sherlock. It made him wonder who _he_ was truly after.

"It'll be okay," Sam said. "You'll beat him."

"How do you know that?"

At that Dean grinned. "Because you have us this time."

John couldn't explain why, but this did make him feel better.

"Just call when you know anything," Sam said. Sherlock nodded. "Are you _actually_ going to call or are you just saying that?"

Sherlock smiled a little. "I'll call," he said. John nodded.

"And if he doesn't, I'll lock myself upstairs again and call while he destroys the flat with our lamp."

"A lamp?" Dean asked. "You used a lamp, of all things?"

There was light banter like that for a long time, and John found himself absently smiling at it. This time, maybe they could beat him. With the Winchesters on their side, suddenly so much more seemed possible. They dealt with the impossible every day, after all. Supposedly they stopped the Apocalypse. They could handle this impossible task as long as they worked together, John realised. He was sure of it.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! This is absolutely the last installment, I promise this time. I am just way too busy to write more Superlock, it takes too much time and thought. But if you have any requests for one shot stories related to Sherlock or Supernatural, I'd love to take them. **

**Again, thank you so much for reading. For your devotion, I will give you a cookie/biscuit (depending on where you're from). **

**Now that I've given you that to snack on, this is the part where you REVIEW! Really, please. I love reviews. I want to know what people think of the story. Positive feedback leads to more writing, after all!**

**So please. Pretty please. With cherries and chocolate and ice cream.**

**Hey, don't you navigate away from this screen. I see you trying to go to another story. Not before you review. **

**Thank you.**


	8. Possible New Installment

So... do you remember how I said that this was definitely the last installment and I am never ever going to write another again? Well... I might have lied. Well, I didn't realize I was lying at the time, but now that the school year is over and I'm on vacation again, I may very well write a new story as yet _another_ follow up to the original "The Consulting Hunter".

So, the reason I am posting this at all is to 1) warn you that it might be coming, and 2) ask people to let me know if they really do want another. I'm not going to waste my time if none of you care, so just let me know in a review if you would like a new chapter. And, if you do leave a review, you can also leave any requests for what you want to see in the newest story. I like requests. As long as they aren't weird. Or slash related. Even though I am a die-hard Johnlock shipper, and a mild Destiel shipper, I don't want this set of stories to have any slash.

So yes, that is all. Let me know what you guys want to see!


End file.
